


Nimble Fingers

by PrincexPhoenix



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincexPhoenix/pseuds/PrincexPhoenix
Summary: Wing grooming, an important part of angelic and demonic upkeep, never was easy for Aziraphale or Crowley. One day, while in the bookshop, they turn to each other.Aziraphale always did think Crowley had rather nimble fingers.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 91
Collections: Unbalanced Humours





	Nimble Fingers

Crowley _slouched_.

To be fair, Aziraphale thought, Crowley always slouched one way or another. But this was a different kind of slouching. Aziraphale was getting the distinct impression he was being slouched at. His suspicions were confirmed when Crowley peered at him over the top of his sunglasses, the picture of misery and woe. Aziraphale lowered his book and lifted his eyebrows.

“What’s wrong, my dear?”

“Well,” Crowley said, “since you asked.” He sat cross-legged on the couch. “My wings have been looking a little ratty lately. I have to go back down to Hell to get them groomed.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, wincing. “How long will you be gone?”

Crowley shrugged. “Depends on who I can get to look at them.” He spread one of his wings, waving it a tad pathetically. “Some of the lesser demons are pretty good about it, but if I happen to be spotted by Hastur, or worse, Beelzebub, I could be down there for a number of days.”

“Days?” Aziraphale asked. “I’m assuming they’re not pleasant days.”

Crowley gave him a look.

“My wings are looking a bit out of shape too, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale admitted. He extended them and looked rueful. His feathers, normally a blinding white, were decidedly grey with dust and soot. “I may have to go to Heaven for a routine check in.” He shuddered.

Crowley grimaced. “How long do they keep you?”

“An hour, tops,” Aziraphale said.

“An hour?” Crowley echoed. “What, do they just vacuum your wings or something?”

Aziraphale thought about Gabriel’s impersonal touch, Michael’s dismissive sweeps, Uriel with her cold hands and colder insults, and Sandalphon plucking out feathers on ‘accident’. Going to anyone else would likely earn him a flat look and a pointed finger back to the Archangels anyway. He pressed his lips together. “Something like that,” he said.

“You’d think you lot would be all about communal wing grooming,” Crowley said. “Holding hands, singing celestial harmonies, preening until your feathers shone.”

Aziraphale lifted one shoulder into a shrug. “I hear it is rather like that,” he said. “I just don’t get invited.”

Something flashed in Crowley’s eyes. It could have been anger.

“Hey,” Crowley said, gently. “Turn around.”

Aziraphale placed his book on his desk. “Is that allowed?” he asked.

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Why not? It’s not like our respective sides are going to miss helping us.”

Aziraphale dithered. “I don’t know,” he said, fidgeting with his hands. “It doesn’t seem like something that we should do. I mean, imagine, a demon grooming my feathers, and an angel grooming yours.”

Crowley scowled. “Satan bless it, angel. It’s not like I’m going to rip out your feathers.”

Aziraphale winced. Crowley’s scowl deepened.

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said. He took another look at his wings and bit his lip. It had been more than a century since the last time anyone groomed them. Plus, Crowley’s fingers looked so nimble, like they could reach that irritating itch that Aziraphale suffered through for the last year. “Yes,” he said. “Please.”

Crowley’s face brightened. He pushed off of the couch, all sinuous movements. Aziraphale stood and Crowley waved his hand.

“Sit,” he said.

Aziraphale sat back down and, at Crowley’s nudge, extended his left wing. Crowley ran his fingers along the tendon of Aziraphale’s wing and Aziraphale shuddered. It was _gentle_. Crowley separated out Aziraphale’s primary feathers and ran his hand along the vane and up to the downy barbs. Dust flew into the air and Aziraphale sneezed.

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley said, his voice oddly strained. “Might get a bit dusty in here.”

“I’ll air it out,” Aziraphale said.

They lapsed into silence as Crowley continued. Aziraphale was glad to know that he was right - Crowley’s fingers were nimble, and reached all of the itches that Aziraphale noticed, and some that he didn’t. Like the one on his joint that was subtle enough to be buried beneath the stress of daily life. Crowley smoothed out the feathers there and Aziraphale almost groaned. The relief was overwhelming.

Crowley reached the spot that was truly bothering Aziraphale and Aziraphale did, in fact, moan as Crowley plucked a feather growing in wrong and sent it floating to the ground. Aziraphale sat upright and opened his mouth, a thousand different apologies fighting to break free.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said at last, his cheeks flushed. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Crowley said.

He ran his fingers down the back of Aziraphale’s wing, smoothing the feathers into place, before starting on the other wing. Aziraphale closed his eyes and let the back of his head rest against the chair. He wondered about other uses for Crowley’s fingers, long and thin and gentle, and lost himself thinking about Crowley pushing them inside of him, praising him-

Another feather fell to the ground and Aziraphale gasped, his spine tingling with the relief of it. There were no itches and his wings were gleaming white again. He looked back at Crowley and smiled. Crowley’s expression was unreadable, but there was just the hint of redness around his cheeks, and Aziraphale felt a warm glow settle in his chest. He reached out and set his hand on Crowley’s, intertwining their fingers for a brief instant. The spark that ran through him was enough.

“Your turn, dear,” Aziraphale said. He stood and shook out his wings before folding them away.

Crowley slid into the seat. His sunglasses glinted in the light, hiding the yellow, serpentine eyes that Aziraphale loved. He blushed, placing a hand on his chest. One gentle wing grooming and he was gushing. Crowley would object to such affection, he was sure. Still, when Aziraphale reached out and ran his finger over the radius of Crowley’s wing, he was sure that the demon sank into the chair with a relieved sigh.

Crowley’s feathers were beautiful. Aziraphale thought they were jet black, but on closer inspection, he saw that there was a rainbow sheen on each of them. Crowley shifted, and the light caught his feathers in a different way, turning them into a kaleidoscope of colour. Aziraphale smoothed one of them, making the dull sheen turn glossy. Crowley dipped his head back and Aziraphale focused on the curve of his neck before shaking himself and dedicating himself to his task. 

There were a few patches of scarring along the outermost edges of Crowley’s wings and Aziraphale made a sound of sympathy.

“I pissed off Hastur,” Crowley said. “He actually did work in the Spanish Inquisition, and when I got the commendation for it, he _kindly_ asked if he could groom my wings.”

Aziraphale shuddered. “Uriel groomed my wings once,” he said. “Decided halfway through that all of my feathers were sullied, and yanked out a good handful before I could find a reason to get away.”

Crowley tilted his head back, peering at Aziraphale over the top of his sunglasses. “Your feathers are pristine,” he hissed.

Aziraphale’s face turned red and he ducked his head, returning to his task. He reached the last feather and hesitated. The bookshop was so peaceful and quiet, he didn’t want it to end. Crowley shifted and Aziraphale ran his hand down the feather and released it. Crowley stood and tucked his wings away. The tension around his shoulders was gone and he slouched.

This time, Aziraphale thought, it was a comfortable, easy slouch.

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley said. He hesitated. “Um.”

“Yes, my dear?”

Crowley’s tongue darted out from between his lips. “I, uh, noticed that I may have missed something on yours,” he said. Hissed, really, but Aziraphale barely noticed. “Would you like me to-”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “But that reminds me, there was a particular knot of feathers that looked like it needed to be teased apart…”

Crowley flashed one of his rare, genuine smiles, and Aziraphale’s heart flipped in his chest. “I’d appreciate that.”

So Aziraphale settled back into the chair and extended his wings. Crowley bent over and, as he ran his fingers over Aziraphale’s feathers, Aziraphale decided to never let anyone else touch his wings again.


End file.
